


In the Noisy Confusion of Life

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle is recovering after the shooting, but accepting help is more difficult than he'd expected and Bodie is smothering him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Noisy Confusion of Life

Raymond Doyle was a desperate man, and quiet times of desperation called for decisive  
actions. As a copper, he'd tried to conform by the rule book, but he was fairly certain  
there was nothing in the policeman's handbook that pertained specifically to this  
situation.

He was through waiting for the proper authorisation and the thought of shoving off the  
restrictions he'd been forced to abide by, and kicking up his heels, held great appeal. It  
would make for a nice change after six wretched weeks of being complacent, passive  
Doyle.

Not that Bodie considered him a particularly obedient patient. In fact, Bodie had basically  
forbade Doyle from doing much of anything whatsoever on his own, which had made for  
an interesting week thus far. Out of hospital for five days, and Doyle had yet to do so  
much as go to the loo unaided. Total rebellion was close at hand.

Doyle rested his chin on his chest, watching his partner silently glower and curl his lip.  
Bodie had the telephone receiver clutched in his fist like a grenade without the pin and  
looked about ready to lob it against the nearest wall. From what he could ascertain from  
Bodie's grunts and half-snarled 'bloody hell', the unexpected call from CI5 did not fit into  
Bodie's rigid schedule for his patient.

"He's just out of hospital-" Bodie said quickly as if trying to get a word in edgewise but  
it was obvious that his argument was cut off before he'd started.

Doyle could just imagine their superior holding a glass of pure malt scotch in one hand,  
the phone in the other, and silencing Bodie with a single Scottish accented bark of his  
surname.

"Sir—" Bodie hunched his back and turned around, depriving Doyle of the singular  
amusement of watching him try to wiggle his way out of the assignment. Served the  
bugger right.

Energised by the thought of a Bodie-free afternoon, Doyle mentally cheered Cowley on.  
He needed the time alone—either that, or Doyle was going to practice a few Karate chops  
on his partner—just as soon as he had the stamina and flexibility to perform a take-tsuki  
without falling over.

He should have known something was afoot when Bodie and the nurse carried him bodily  
out of the hospital and into the waiting taxi. Bodie's ebullient mood had turned somber  
the moment they arrived at Doyle's new flat and hadn't resurfaced thus far.

That first day, Doyle had fallen asleep in the afternoon only to wake in the shadow of  
twilight to a healthy meal atop a small bed table that fit across his knees. Bodie, the  
connoisseur of takeaway fish and chips, had whipped up a vegetable quiche and a lettuce  
salad. Startled by the change in his partner, Doyle had obediently eaten his tea—what he  
could manage of the huge portions. Bodie had hovered, encouraging one more bite,  
acting disappointed when Doyle pushed away the remainder. Bodie's behaviour had only  
became more protective, not to mention restrictive, after that.

Doyle would have sympathised more if he hadn't felt like a cosseted poodle. Ex-merc  
Bodie wasn't the sort to say anything, but Doyle's hospitalisation had clearly traumatised  
him. Bodie probably thought he was hiding it well, but there were telltale signs that gave  
him away-the way he watched Doyle constantly, alert for any sign of fatigue or malady,  
six full effing weeks after the shooting.

Doyle was grateful for the breakfast in bed every morning but the solicitous, courteous  
Bodie was not the partner he knew and loved. Something had to give, soon, or both of  
them would be barking mad by February.

Bodie all but hurled the phone back into its cradle in disgust. "Nobody in the whole squad  
but me who has the sufficient clearance?"

"Terrorist attack on Heathrow?" Doyle asked mildly, inordinately entertained by the  
display. This was the most excitement he'd had in weeks. "Bombing at Harrod's?"

"Nothing so mundane. Escort service!" Bodie spat, regarding the phone with a mutinous  
expression. "Not bloody likely is all I can say…"

"Tell us all about it, dearie," Doyle wheedled in a near approximation of his granddad's  
voice. This was far better than the book he was reading. James Bond might be England's  
finest agent, but he had nothing on the likes of one William Bodie when he got started.  
Trouble was, Bodie didn't seem to want to get into gear.

"Archduke Wilhelm von Cassel," Bodie muttered, stalking into the bedroom for a change  
of clothes. "Mrs. Thatcher's set her cap for his influence in some foreign policy matter."  
The rest of his shirty comments were mostly inaudible when he slammed the bathroom  
door, but Doyle got the gist.

His unlikely salvation had come in the form of the daughter of visiting dignitary from  
Germany. Cowley had to stay with her father while he hammered out some kind of  
policy with several members of Parliament, leaving the daughter at a loose end. Her  
father was an influential man with numerous enemies. She couldn't be left on her own but  
she was in England for the first time and had always wanted to stick her toes in the ocean  
at Brighton.

"I hate minder jobs!" Bodie exploded, coming back out. "The Cow says she requires an  
escort."

"Escort a German bird to the seaside?" Doyle laughed, remembering belatedly to brace  
his chest. Any sudden movement strangled his breath in his lungs and it hurt just to  
breathe out. He refused to let that show. "Makes you sound like a common rent boy  
father hired for the hour."

"More than an hour." Bodie glowered, stomping to the closet to find his jacket and  
holster. "More like five hours, what with traffic through London to pick her up at the  
Ritz. Piccadilly will be swarming with the unwashed masses, then we'll on the motorway  
for ages just to let some pampered nearly-royal paddle in the Atlantic--which she could  
do in the Fatherland. It's the middle of January!"

The rant was more Doyle's style. The lack of a wicked repost was alarming and just  
proved how completely Bodie had submerged his usual black humour in exchange for  
protecting Ray at all costs.

"Give you a chance to get out of the flat, breathe in some brisk salt air."

"Can't, old son." Bodie frowned, his face a storm cloud blown in from the frosty environs  
of the North Sea. "Reckon I'll call Cowley back, tell him…"

"Go out looking like that and the bird will run away in fright," Doyle said dryly, his own  
temper rising with Bodie's thick-headedness. "Belt up, get on your bike and take off."

Bodie didn't even react to the mild insult. "It'll be night before I'm back—what if…"

Doyle saw the truth of it, what Bodie was most afraid of. Leaving him alone in the flat so  
similar to the one where he'd been gunned down six weeks before. Didn't do any good to  
point out that the one who'd shot him was dead herself.

"I can doss down here on the sofa, next to the phone. Safe as houses." He didn't say a  
word when Bodie tucked an afghan over his feet, but inside he was cheering loudly  
enough to be heard in Aberdeen. Five hours without Bodie driving him slowly insane.  
"Enough aggro, go pick up her highness,"

"There's an r/t on the table. I'll check up on you at regular intervals." Bodie lingered at  
the front door, obviously contemplating refusal of a direct order from Cowley.

"Bodie not sniffing out a bit of skirt? Who are you, some changeling left by the fairies  
down in the dell?" Doyle chuckled, using one of the sofa cushions as a splint on his chest  
this time.

"Bugger off," Bodie said irritably and raised a stiff, two fingered salute before he left.  
Slammed the door and all.

Doyle eased back against the couch. Keeping up the pretense that his chest and back  
didn't hurt like hell was not as difficult as it had been, but there were still consequences.  
He had muscles tight as cord wood and just as inflexible. Physiotherapy was due to start  
in a fortnight and he wasn't looking forward to the experience. He gave in to a fantasy of  
a fantastic Swedish girl who'd plied him with massages after he'd broken his arm that  
time which segued into the same massage performed by a completely different set of  
hands. Same size but even stronger, with a callous on the right trigger finger and attached  
to a much more muscular, male body.

Bodie.

Doyle grimaced and pushed the thought away. What had once been a casual thing, a  
rough snog after a bad assignment had increasingly become something Doyle had  
depended on. Looked forward to. Probably not going to ever happen again.

Brother Bodie had apparently taken a vow of celibacy, from all indications. Not only had  
he not favoured Doyle with a leering glance in ages, specifically six weeks, give or take  
the few days when Doyle had been out of it. The simple fact that Bodie hadn't jumped at  
the chance to spend the afternoon with a pretty girl spoke volumes.

Doyle regarded the r/t positioned on top of the Sun and thought about the Page Three Girl  
for a moment. Not a bit of interest there, more's the pity. He preferred a flat chest, pale  
skin, dark hair and blue eyes that glinted with caustic wit and casual charm. Someone  
who hadn't been around in a long time. The Bodie he used to know.

Which didn't explain why he missed the miserable sod who'd just stormed out. And who  
wouldn't be back for five hours, with any luck at all. Given the recent events, Doyle had  
absolutely no faith in luck.

Bodie'd probably end up fighting some anti-German political group while the Teutonic  
princess pranced through the winter waves. Fisticuffs might be employed, or possibly  
gunfire.

On the whole, Doyle was much better off tucked up in his flat with the Page Three Girl,  
doing as he pleased.

Five hours to do as he pleased. Except that he'd much rather be at Bodie's side, laughing  
like a fool and feeling his partner's lecherous gaze heat up his back just before decking  
the xenophobic terrorists bent on kidnapping Fraulein DŸsseldorf 1982.

More like Bodie and his charge would find Brighton a cold, grey stretch of sand, which  
was just what this flat had become. Five hours to wait then, and reorganise--because  
Doyle was not going to take things the way they were lying down.

Actually, he was, since standing up for long periods of time left him light-headed with a  
sharp pain in his back. He'd begin planning his strategy for changing Bodie's current  
attitude after a kip. Always good to have priorities. Must keep up one's strength, after all,  
for the necessary denouement.

Doyle woke up cramped and achy. Perhaps sleeping on the sofa hadn't been such a good  
idea after all. He took his time getting up, revelling in the quiet, the peace of not having  
Bodie standing close by, ready to catch him if he wobbled.

Funny that he'd never expected Bodie to make such a fuss. All the other times they'd been  
shot, concussed, fractured or knifed, it was off to hospital, home a few days later, and the  
obligatory grapes and bawdy magazines to keep the invalid happy until he was reinstated  
to the squad. It had become a comfortable routine, expected and familiar.

Nothing from the moment he'd discovered Mayli in his sitting room had been routine or  
expected. Doyle remembered precious little past the rush of adrenaline as she'd pulled the  
trigger. Just confusion, fear, ephemeral almost ethereal sensations all quashed by the  
mind-numbing pain.

And then Bodie had been there, and he'd felt safe; taken care of, protected.

But that didn't mean that the daft git had to wrap Doyle up in cotton wool like some  
overpriced piece of Waterford.

Standing unaided proved less fulfilling than he had expected. He did wobble a great deal,  
gaining momentum after the first few steps. The flat wasn't all that large, he could make  
it to the bathroom under his own steam. The whole point of this afternoon was to relish  
the freedom—do as he pleased, when he pleased.

And what he pleased was to take a shower. Alone.

Between Bodie and the nurses back at the hospital, Doyle had yet to have a wash that  
didn't involve a sponge and a discreet towel to cover what little dignity he could muster  
under such circumstances. Although Bodie hadn't gone so far as to scrub Doyle himself,  
he'd all but watched when the visiting nurse came to do her chores.

Doyle grinned to himself, letting his tracksuit bottoms drop onto the green and white tiled  
floor of the bathroom. Those blue eyes watching for just a moment from the door of the  
bedroom had been the one time that Bodie's faade had slipped. Doyle had felt the hot,  
needy gaze from all the way across the room, even before the nurse dipped her flannel  
under cover of Doyle's towel. Then Bodie had disappeared like a jack-in-the-box stuffed  
back under the lid and probably hadn't even seen Doyle snatch the flannel from the nurse  
and wash his own bollocks, thank you very much all the same. If the woman hadn't been  
in the room, he might have washed them far slower, thinking of that blue-eyed voyeur the  
entire time.

Getting his jumper over his head was a great deal more difficult than stepping out of the  
tracksuit had been. Doyle still found that lifting his arms more than shoulder height was  
not a pleasant experience. The pain helped focus his resolve, though. If he was going to  
do things on his own, there were bound to be consequences. He was sweating and cursing  
in under thirty seconds, and the bloody thing hadn't cleared his head. Slow and steady  
won the fight, leaving him knackered and perched on the lid of the toilet.

He wasn't yet ready to visually examine the change in his body, but when he'd finally  
wrestled the jumper into submission and shoved it into the laundry basket, Doyle  
explored the uneven terrain of his chest with the flat of his hand. The bandages were long  
gone, leaving behind a body he no longer knew. Felt like a lunar landscape bristling with  
a half grown forest of hairs where they'd shaved him—not once, but twice. The healed  
wound was round as a crater, and even the most sensitive of touches sent out shockwaves  
of tingly pain that went straight to his head. Probably a good thing he couldn't see his  
own back, where the majority of the surgery had been. Must look like a bleeding  
Frankenstein's monster sewn together with great bloody stitches.

He pressed against his temples to shove the impending headache out and stood, still on  
the wobbly side. Nothing was going to interfere with his enjoyment of his first shower in  
1982\. Odd that the old year had rung out and the new one come in with only a token nod  
from him. Usually he and Bodie would have toasted the end of December with  
champagne and increasingly raucous and bawdy versions of Aulde Lang Syne. Instead,  
he'd been asleep by 9 p.m. in his hospital cot soon after Bodie brought him a leftover  
Christmas cracker that yielded a plastic horn and a red and green striped tissue paper hat.

What they needed was a little celebration to make up for missed opportunities. To inspire  
future opportunities. Fireworks, and even fairy lights seemed somehow inappropriate, but  
Doyle wanted joy to go with the hope his survival had engendered. He wanted to see  
Bodie smile again, the way he'd done that last day at the hospital when everything had  
seemed bright as a new penny.

Desperation gave way to actual plans. Right after the long delayed shower, he'd ring up  
the Chinese place down the lane for delivery. His appetite was still in the emerging  
stages, although some orange chicken would probably go down a treat. Whether it stayed  
down was the bigger question. What to drink was easy to work out. Bodie only allowed  
him fizzy water due to the painkillers he was still taking. The fact that he'd bowed to this  
restriction said a lot about his own need to keep Bodie around, despite the imminent  
insanity. That, and the painkillers left him so muddled most days that he tended to forget  
the point to any argument five minutes after he'd started it.

Forgoing champagne was just as well when Bodie could make him dizzy all on his own.  
Candles would be a nice touch. To soften all the sharp angles and defects Doyle had  
acquired of late.

Bodie'd probably launch into a tirade about having an open flame in the house and  
threaten to call the fire brigade before blowing out every candle to leave them in utter  
darkness.

About where they'd been since he'd got out of hospital.

Doyle laughed, something pinched and strained suddenly loosening under his breastbone,  
and he had to press on his chest to keep from crying.

He hadn't given Bodie enough consideration. The idiot must have gone through hell those  
first days. In comparison, Doyle had slept through the worst of it, floating in a drugged  
coma that had spawned some weird dreams that he only recalled flashes of.

Bodie's humour, his inherent ability to find the absurdity in any given situation had been  
resolutely swept away. Doyle felt incumbent to do his utmost to give his partner back that  
lost part of himself. He'd begun to heal since the shooting: Bodie needed to follow his  
lead.

Doyle shivered. He'd been lost in thought, sitting in the bathroom without clothes, for  
who knows how long. Between the nap and his reverie, his narrow window of quiet time  
was rapidly closing. The bathroom never retained heat, even on the best of days. In mid-  
January, it had all the warmth of Admiral Byrd's tent at the North Pole. Groaning, Doyle  
managed to pull himself to a stand. He'd stiffened up in the chilly room and his already  
abused muscles were like blocks of marble. It was going to take a lot of hot water to  
loosen him enough to put his clothes back on, not to mention toddle back to the sofa  
before Bodie returned.

He leant into the shower stall to turn the tap, listening to the old plumbing rattle and clank  
as the water pressure built up. The first drops were so cold that he waited until the water  
was pleasantly tolerable to step under the downpour. Once drenched, he inched the tap  
over, catching his breath when the spray went from hot to nearly scalding.

Bliss.

Pure perfection.

He rotated his neck, the snick and crack of ligaments and tendons like firecrackers on  
Guy Fawkes Night. The water pummeled his rock hard muscles, washing away tension  
and sparking weird, fleeting sensations from his damaged nerve endings as if they'd  
suddenly been zapped with an electric charge. His overly long curls dipping into his eyes,  
Doyle leant against the tiled wall of the stall, aware only of the water, the increasing ease  
of his own breath and the soul healing peace. Nothing else existed.

No Mayli, no bullets ripping into fragile tissue, no infuriating, exasperating, irreplaceable  
Bodie.

Bodie. Strange how absence immediately made the heart fonder, and other parts of the  
anatomy, too. The recently decreased dosage of painkillers had brought an unexpected  
pressie, the return of Doyle's libido. He'd been delighted to discover a morning stiffy,  
which he'd had no time to do anything about. Bodie's constant vigilance had stifled  
Doyle's furtive efforts to find some satisfaction.

The shower did the trick—no Bodie poking his nose where it didn't need to be. Just the  
thought of Bodie's hands taking up the flannel and washing lower and lower. Bodie  
whipping off the covering towel and smirking at him, his quirked eyebrow lifted just a  
wee bit higher in triumph. The sensuous, mischievous, teasing smile that was pure Bodie  
did what nothing else had done so far that week, it made Doyle rise to the challenge.

He stroked downward from groin to crown, tipping his head back with the absolute  
pleasure of a denied indulgence which triggered a laugh that turned into a cough. He  
inhaled abruptly, catching water in his mouth and throat, and coughed harder, the wall  
behind him the thing only keeping him standing. It occurred to him that it might be best  
to continue this job in bed where he wouldn't bash his head if he climaxed. The luscious  
heat of the water was beginning to cool, anyway.

Pity Bodie hadn't been there in the flesh to welcome the return of function. Doyle swiped  
at the hair in his eyes to admire his prominent display but the steady stream from the tap  
kept plastering his fringe in place, obscuring his view.

Reaching out blindly for a towel, Doyle's fingertips brushed a leather sleeve. He jerked  
back in alarm, going for the gun which should have been holstered under his left arm, had  
he been dressed and actually back on the squad. As it was, all he did was lose his balance,  
one bare foot slipping on the slick tile.

The leather clad arm shot out, catching him before he pitched back against the metal  
fittings, and hauled him out of the shower.

"Bloody hell!" two voices said in unison, one pitched in shock, the other raised in anger.

"Scared the fucking life out of me, Bodie!" Doyle pulled away from his partner's grasp,  
his heart beating far too fast. He was naked, erect, and all too aware of both.

"Doesn't look it like to me, sunshine," Bodie said, dry as a gin on a hot afternoon.

Could have been the Scouse accent or just the fact that Bodie was looking at him without  
an ounce of the old matron-of-the-ward reproach, or perhaps a combination of both that  
made Doyle swell all the harder. He groaned, far too loudly, clutching at the towel which  
seemed quite determined to remain fixed to the towel rail as if it had been nailed there.

Inexplicably, Bodie blushed and swung open the warming cupboard as though his life  
depended on fetching a towel and covering up Doyle's dripping nudity. "Attempting to  
rupture something, were you?" Bodie bundled the heavenly warmth around Doyle with  
alacrity. "Five days out of hospital and you're having a wank under the shower? Tut-tut,  
Raymond, what would Sister say?"

"You were meant to be gone for five hours!" Doyle protested into the voluminous folds,  
his schemes all for naught.

"Two bloody hours on the fucking motorway with a huge pile-up. Two lorries, their  
bumpers locked in coital embrace, over on their sides. The Marks and Sparks van spilled  
out all and sundry onto the road. Tins of spotted dick co-mingling with bunches of ladies'  
fingers. Quite the sight," Bodie explained, steering Doyle out of the bathroom and along  
the carpeted hall to the bedroom.

"Add to that a half hour each way bringing her ladyship to and from the hotel, and  
another in the bar downing several pints. She'd not exactly a member of the temperance  
league, our Fraulein Gertrude." Apparently without actually paying attention to what he  
was doing, Bodie began vigorously rubbing the towel over Doyle's body, wicking away  
the water. The increased friction was doing incredible things to Doyle's very interested  
cock. "We never made it to Brighton."

"Bodie!" Doyle slapped him away before he inadvertently caused a conflagration of epic  
proportions. Quite belatedly, Doyle was discovering that this much activity might be  
quite beyond his current physical capacity, but hell if it hadn't been worth it, every single  
minute of the last couple of hours, ending with Bodie giving him a hand job through the  
towel.

"What?" Bodie asked, all innocence, and Doyle caught on at last; the raunchy description  
of the smash-up should have been a clue. "Don't you want me to do this anymore?" He  
placed his palm square atop Doyle's towel covered groin and ground down with the heel  
of his hand.

"I…" Doyle caught his breath as he came, which hurt, but he no longer cared because he  
was utterly wrung dry. Suspended in that petit mort that was so much more satisfying  
than dying for real. He groaned and melted into a puddle on the bed.

"Hey," Bodie said softly, stroking Doyle's cheek with a quick, soft caress that left as soon  
as Doyle opened his eyes. "Do I need to send out for your surgeon?" There was a rough  
mixture of affection and concern in his voice.

"You do and I may have to grab you by the testicles…" Doyle warned sleepily. It was a  
token threat but it had the right effect on Bodie.

"Like to see you try." Bodie laughed and then sobered, drawing his hand very gently  
down Doyle's chest to cover the most visible souvenir from Mayli's gun. "I tried to raise  
you on the r/t but there was no answer. Just what were you trying to do, Ray?"

"Take a bloody shower!" Doyle said too loudly, regretting it instantly. "I just needed  
to…"

Bodie nodded, a bemused expression pushing his lips together into a grimace of a smile.  
"Remember me hand?" He spread the fingers of his right hand, spanning Doyle's chest  
from nipple to nipple, which accentuated the old scar between the third and forth  
knuckles.

"Yeah, it does look familiar." He tapped Bodie's wrist with a lazy forefinger. "I may have  
to bronze the thing for what it just did for me—unexpected pressie that was, but what's  
that got to do with the price of tea?" Doyle closed his eyes again, pain building mostly in  
his back, but he categorically refused to acknowledge the bugger, at least not for a while.  
Not when he had the old Bodie back.

"Clown," Bodie admonished. "A couple years back, when I was dating Julie. Bullet tore  
up the tendons in my hand and Cowley wouldn't let me work until it'd healed up to his  
specifications."

"Ah, it all comes back to me now, whilst rowing on the Thames you manage to arrest an  
international terrorist and take refuge in a vicarage, all the while nursing a banged-up  
hand." Doyle generally didn't enjoy reliving that day. He'd spent the whole afternoon  
tearing around the countryside with Cowley, desperate to find his partner.

"Seems your memory has come through the wash unaffected," Bodie said, but the  
sadness on his face belayed his teasing tone. "I refused to let an injury hold me back.  
Should have known you'd do the same with an illicit shower."

"Illicit?" Doyle would have laughed but it took too much work. He settled for turning his  
mouth up at both ends, Bodie's hand on his chest anchoring him. "You do have a way  
with words, don't you?"

"Perhaps carnal would have been a better choice."

That time he did laugh, the movement pulling aching muscles along his ribs and back.  
Bodie slid his hand under Doyle, tracing the hurt, ably easing out the cramp without ever  
being asked. He just seemed to know exactly where to massage to relieve the worst of it.

"So how was she?" Doyle asked when he had enough excess oxygen in his lungs to  
speak.

"Who?" Bodie stretched out on the bed, giving Doyle a gentle shove over that did more  
for his morale than all the vegetable quiche lunches and hovering nursemaids ever did.  
No longer treating him like an invalid, but an equal partner. Someone who fell down, but  
could get back up again.

"Fraulein DŸsseldorf—I mean…"

"Gertrude?" Bodie gave the German name an exaggerated accent, rolling his 'r' with a  
flourish. "Very nice—reminded me of someone, but the entire time I couldn't quite put  
my finger on whom."

"Yeah?" Doyle shivered just slightly, the damp towel not enough of a covering.

Bodie kicked off his shoes before he arranged the duvet and sheets over Doyle. Then he  
snugged in close, a man-sized bed warmer. "Long legs she had, narrow hips and lovely  
eyes of a changeable nature, bit blue, more green." He wasn't looking at his bedmate at  
all, pretending a very aloof manner although the way he kept biting his bottom lip as if  
trying not to grin was making Doyle grin in return. "Long curls, needed her fringe  
trimmed, actually."

"Planning on shagging her?" Doyle asked lightly.

"Probably not. Haven't the time." Bodie sighed dramatically and looked over at Doyle as  
if only just noticing they were less than millimeters apart. "Have plans, you see."

"Cowley got you by the short hairs?"

"Perish the idea, my lad." Bodie shuddered, eyes comically wide. "No, these plans are  
more in the way of visiting a shut-in who needs a bit of companionship."

"Like a helping hand once in a while," Doyle agreed, getting into the spirit.

"Just so."

"There was a bloke coming round before who must have been in the Army. Quite  
regimented, he was, tight corners on the sheets, breakfast, lunch and supper at exact  
intervals accompanied by all the necessary pills and rest."

"Did you fancy him?"

"Reminded me a bit of someone I'd once known, but not the same person at all."

Bodie took Doyle's hand, closing it between both of his like he was praying, something  
Doyle didn't think Bodie ever did. "He won't be back. He had a - scare a while ago. Last  
year actually, long before Christmas, so he should be done with all that. But he got  
muddled." Bodie's lips twisted in an ugly fashion and for a moment Doyle thought he was  
going to cry. "Strangely, a charmer from Germany set him to rights."

"May have to have her bronzed, then."

"You might indeed. She was missing her fiancŽ who's on manoeuvres."

"Manoeuvres with another fraulein?"

"The Army, you prat."

"Quite some manoeuvres, if you have the right sergeant at arms." Doyle shivered again,  
rustling the bedclothes. The winter afternoon air was chilly on his uncovered shoulders.

"You are a randy little git, aren't you?" Bodie harrumphed with a gleam in his eye. "Don't  
know where you get that from. And despite my best efforts, you haven't warmed up."

"Apparently need more than the average man."

"You are more than the average man." Bodie managed to avoid having the romantic  
sentiment drip treacle all over the bed by getting up and rummaging through Doyle's  
drawers for some clothing. "T-shirt, jumper and pyjama bottoms."

"I can dress myself," Doyle said automatically, which hadn't counted for much in the last  
couple of days. He'd got undressed by himself, after all.

"I know you can, sunshine." Bodie held out the white cotton shirt, waiting patiently until  
Doyle carefully sat up against the head of the bed. He didn't make a move to help even  
when Doyle shifted too quickly and had to ride out the cramping pain with his eyes  
squeezed shut.

Doyle grimly pulled on the shirt, which was stretchy enough to accommodate being  
twisted but once again the jumper proved to be the deal breaker. He simply couldn't get  
the thing rucked up and over his head. His barely knitted muscles wouldn't move that  
freely.

"Need a hand?" Bodie said quietly.

"Even a gammy one would do in a pinch." Doyle surrendered, lifting his arms up as high  
as they would go so Bodie could slip the jumper on.

"You've lost two stone, maybe more," Bodie commented, tugging it into place. "No  
wonder you can't stay warm. Not an ounce of fat to be had."

"I was going to ring up Wo Ming's for some orange chicken, make a party of it." Doyle  
concentrated on getting his pyjamas on and tying the drawstring. Even making a huge  
bow, the bottoms hung precariously off his bony hips.

"Were you now? Seems we may be on the same wavelength, since I brought some drink."  
Bodie padded barefoot into the sitting room and came back with a carrier bag. He  
produced several bottles and placed them in a row on the bed side table. "Shandy goes  
excellently with orange chicken. Lots of Vitamin C to ward off scurvy."

"Not bloody likely we'll be suffering that in the middle of twentieth century London. Not  
a sailing vessel in sight." Doyle laughed, one arm across his chest against the jaggedy  
pains that laughing brought. He didn't care a whit. This was too much fun. This was what  
he'd been missing since Mayli changed everything.

"Can't be too careful." Bodie regarded him with a stern eye. "When was the last time you  
took a painkiller, Raymond?"

"Since you're the keeper of the medications, don't you know?" Doyle shot back with just  
the right amount of irritation. Needed to keep Bodie on his toes.

"Not without consulting the schedule," Bodie went on in the haughty voice of a barrister  
of the court. He poured a small amount of beer and much larger amount of lemonade into  
the glass that had last held water for Doyle's morning pills. "We'll jolly well have to  
throw out the baby with the bathwater and resign ourselves to anarchy and chaos.  
Bottoms up."

"Ta." Doyle swallowed, the slight buzz of beer and lemonade wonderful after being in the  
desert for so long. He could forgo the codeine for a few more hours with a little of this in  
his belly.

"Got some on your lip there." Bodie leant in, kissing him, simple and straight forward.  
He didn't mess about or linger, just let the single kiss speak for itself.

"Missed you, Bodie." Doyle licked his bottom lip, tasting the stronger ale that Bodie was  
drinking straight from the bottle. It was dark, hearty and strong, just like his mate. Perfect  
to warm up a man on a long winter night. "Get the phone, I'm peckish all of a sudden."

FIN


End file.
